


wilbur's book

by moreworldliness



Category: DreamSMP (Minecraft Series)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Diary/Journal, Emotionally Repressed, Gen, Past Character Death, Repressed Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28437315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moreworldliness/pseuds/moreworldliness
Summary: ghostbur tries to write, and finds himself overwhelmed in blue.or:i enjoy torturing ghostbur too much, and force him to repress memories
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	wilbur's book

**Author's Note:**

> "Video Blogging RPF" is bs lmao  
> jk - here, take some blue, calm yourself

Books didn’t have eyes.

They didn’t think or breathe, didn’t look and stare, never whispered or muttered as the wind did on stormy nights. Books didn’t live, yet the stories they told crushed the feeble storylines of so many souls with the breadth of their tongues, and fables, and spiraled death into meaningless words on a page. Like it was nothing at all - a story that never happened to anyone, the large black book titled “Death”.

Words had a habit of throwing a wedge inside of truth, allowing those that read them to ignore the choices behind each sentence. If you didn’t like it, you could state that the words were just that - words - and leave it be. If you liked it, still somehow, you’d miss the point of the words in the first place and interpret them in different ways to fit the holes inside of your heart. As with all books, “Death” had words. Wilbur had read the book many times over, but no longer remembered the contents; only the bitter feeling on his tongue as he recounted meaningless syllables.

Words, like people, could also be deceitful. Artful, and snide, purposefully twisting their meanings around so that wars were waged over the same yellow pages that everyone saw, hallucinating meaning where there was none and avoiding the truth of faux statements. Like all people, “Death” was deceitful. Wilbur had listened to the book so many times that he couldn’t distinguish the lies from the truths, misty framework in his brain picking and choosing the feelings that matched with what he perceived to be correct.

But nothing truly was correct, in that large black book called “Death”. Because the contents couldn’t be described by themselves, and never would be amended to make sense. Ink on paper, blood on skin - all writing implements thrown through his skull that never seemed to hit their target and fill the empty pages in his mind. But that was fine - because perhaps a ghost was best equipped to shun the book’s existence.

Death was many things, none of them described adequately.

Death was the loss of self - the disposal of who you were to become nothing more than a product of what you’d done, the grief of a world you’d built being torn away in several calculated months; watching it come closer, and closer still, with all the monotony of a bored spirit with nothing to. Crawling, the death of self, at a snail’s pace, and yet it found itself right beside you.

Death was the loss of people - the empty place in a room where you assumed someone should stand, or perhaps still stood, and was imperceivable. The quiet mist in a room that had no candles, the looming silhouette of a headstone that stood unmoving against harsh wind and snow; unaffected by the elements, unreachable and untouchable, occluded in the memento mori of a single rose at the foot of their eternal bed.

Death was the stinging warmth that blossomed from a blade in Wilbur’s abdomen, was the ringing of explosions in his ears, was the glowing grin over his features, was--

|||

The sound of ink spilling grabbed Wilbur’s attention from the pages that were visible through his hands, quill falling quietly against his twitching fingers as if to calm his accelerated heartbeat. The bird that had gifted this feather to the blackened ink was surely dead, too; unavoidable, staining everything that he touched.

What was death, if not who he was?

Who was he?

Wilbur stood up sharply, the flimsy excuse for a chair underneath him cracking slightly, his translucent hands trying to smother the blue smear on his sweater, growing and darkening from his abdomen. It ached, the presence of metal missing from the pain that swarmed over his fingers and dyed his fingertips in the colour of sorrow. Blue slid seamlessly to his eyes, tears gathering in the corners of their pale glow and dragging themselves like nails down his face, explosions in his ears as his heart tried to reassure his mind.

Ghosts didn’t need to breathe, but for that moment, he gasped: The firepit inside of his little library crackled, rain against the windowpanes as the wind howled its lullaby to a silent room, ink dripping carelessly onto the floor.

Death had many names, and meant many things; the greatest death, Ghostbur couldn’t help but think, was the death of memory - though he couldn’t for the life of him remember why that was. The words were gone, worlds away, and now it was just Ghostbur and his small library. Blue on his fingers mixed with the ink, hair falling in the way of his weeping eyes, a frown darting across his features just momentarily. The colour of the void was blue, darkened with words that had been liquified, and that was just fine for him.

His desk was mahogany, given to him by a close friend with no face or name, and received by a man that he sometimes saw standing in the mirror; Ghostbur knew it wasn’t him, he never smiled like that. The desk was covered in quills and fountain pens, ink stains, and an unstained area where his diary always lay; cover ruined by the constant spilling of an inkpot that always got caught on the sleeve of his sweater. A light fluttering of sound inside of the small glass jar was always the indicator it’d spilled, and Ghostbur always found himself breathless.

The ink was black, though his hands were always blue. Perhaps it was the pigmentation.

With a sigh and a laugh, Ghostbur reached for his diary, placing the quill on the most recent pages so he wouldn’t lose his place; the black overwrote the blue, and something inside of him faded just a little more. Ink stains trailed in front of the fireplace, where he set the diary to dry, allowing the words to fade and the cover to darken just a little more.

In his hands, Ghostbur held a large black book that he could no longer remember the name of. He’d come to it tomorrow if he found the time: He’d remember it in a week, and sit to write what he could, with the ink that always spilled on his sweater and hands in a different hue. Even when it came to the contents of the diary, he wasn’t sure what it truly said - he’d forget anyway.

Nothing was consistent when it came to the large black book that Ghostbur called his diary.


End file.
